


A Fortiori

by manic_intent



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Slash, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kink meme, which asked for a His Dark Materials crossover (i.e. everyone has a daemon).  Anders seeks to engage the services of an assassin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fortiori

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was written mostly on the long plane flights to Europe and back. :3 I read His Dark Materials several years ago, so there's bound to be a few inaccuracies in here. I'm setting this in Thedas, but with the steampunk tech of HDM's world, plus magic. Warning for slash. Reading His Dark Materials (or watching the inferior movie) beforehand is highly recommended as there will be plot device spoilers. Some HDM world features have been tweaked for this story.

I.

The audience that the final favor had bought him was not what Anders had expected.

The bruisers at the back room of the Hanged Man had forced him to bag Pounce, much to his daemon's indignation, then blindfolded him, manhandled him none too gently into a waiting hansom, and they'd rattled away, over uneven cobblestones, at a brisk pace that occasionally smashed his shoulder into the side of the cab. On his lap, clutched protectively in the circle of his hands, Pounce muttered and hissed and wriggled, to no avail, even as he crooned at her and stroked her, trying to calm her panic.

They'd stopped, after an interminably bone-jarring ride, and he'd been shoved out of the hansom, roughly set aright, and then Anders had been frogmarched into a building that smelled strongly of nutmeg and cinnamon, and up a creaking, circling, steep set of stairs. He was shoved forward, told that the blindfolds could be removed, and then the footsteps had receded, the door far below them slamming shut.

"I think you've killed us both," Pounce muttered, always an optimist, as Anders hastily freed her and removed his blindfold. They stood alone in a top floor room of what looked like a narrow house, the roof above them sloped in a sharp incline, and the single window had been boarded up. A skylight remained, from which a shaft of the dying evening sun fell upon a bolted table at the center, with two metal chairs, similarly bolted to opposite ends.

"Hush," Anders lifted Pounce onto his shoulder, and she swished her ginger tail, her ears flattened against her feline skull. "You know why we need to do this."

"I know why we need to do this," Pounce agreed, "I'm just criticizing your chosen solution."

"He's highly recommended."

"Oh yes, a highly recommended assassin. What does that make him? A very good killer. What does that make prey caught by a very good killer and spirited someplace where we won't be missed? _Dead_."

"Your reasoning is absolutely sound, milady." Anders said dryly, even as he sat himself down at the bolted chair that faced the stairwell. "Please allow me to excoriate myself in shame."

"Well, you bloody deserve it," Pounce said, though she rubbed her cheek against his ear affectionately, offering a brief comfort. "Want me to look around? There could be a way out."

"No. We'll wait." Anders traced a small glyph under the table, just in case, working on memory.

They didn't have to wait long - eventually, he heard the creak of the door below, but no footsteps. Puzzled, Anders was rising from the chair when a man padded up from the stairwell, absolutely silent, and smiled at him, all ruthless, playful amusement at his surprise.

Garrett Hawke was a lean, compact man, a few fingers' width shorter than Anders himself, and his poise was one of arrogant, deadly grace; a sleek, trimmed dark beard lined a firm jaw, sideburns tracing up comely features into a storm gray, felt hat with a black silk band, an iridescent starling's feather pinned against the left side. He wore a storm gray suit of the same hue as his hat, sharply cut, and sleek tailored trousers tucked into knee-high black riding boots, a black vest over a white shirt, the top button unbuttoned. He was visibly unarmed.

Hawke strode into the room, and slid into the chair, gloved fingers steepled before him, even as a great gray wolf padded up into the room, black nails clicking on the timber, and sat down beside him, eyeing Pounce with a thoughtful, feral calculation.

"Anders, was it." It wasn't a question; Hawke looked him briefly up and down with the same feral calculation, and Andraste, but that _voice_ : all velvet and coiled menace - Anders was glad for the chair, his knees felt weak. Pounce didn't move, but Anders abruptly felt claws pressed through his shirt, and he straightened up, suitably rebuked. He had to concentrate.

"Yes, er, serah Hawke. I had a-"

"I know what you want." Hawke interrupted, in the same velvet tone, amber eyes the same hue as his daemon's half-lidded. "The question is whether you can afford my services. Because, with all respect, and although I do so hate to judge things by their covers, your particular cover is undeniably scruffy and worn. And not in the 'rich eccentric' way, more of a 'poor and destitute' sense."

Anders had to concentrate not to check himself over, but he did know, belatedly, how his patched greatcoat, rumpled shirt and discolored loafers had to look. "I have coin." The mage underground had coin; good coin, that it earned from trading lyrium in the black market in Kirkwall.

"Perhaps so," Hawke inclined his head, though he didn't look like he believed it. "But there are other operatives in the business, more suitable for what you need. Your 'mage underground' wishes to know what lies beneath the third basement of the Gallows. There are thieves for that. I could give you a few names," Hawke said, and his daemon's jaws parted, tongue lolling out as if in a silent laugh. "Gratis."

"I don't need a thief," Anders insisted. "Or a spy. And I already know what lies beneath the third basement. That was a feint. To draw away attention if it ever reached templar ears. I want what's under the third basement destroyed. What I also want," he said quietly, "Is to assassinate the _idea_ of it."

Hawke had leaned forward, his amber eyes narrowed and bright with curiosity, even as his daemon growled softly. "I don't enjoy being lied to, serah Anders."

"I didn't lie to you. Only to your minions."

"A small distinction," Hawke said, and though his expression didn't change, his wolf's tongue lolled out again. "To assassinate a man, or a woman, that is my usual line of work. But to kill an idea..."

Anders took in a deep breath, and pressed his palms on the table, ready to activate the ward. "It's possible, isn't it? You've done it before."

The wolf daemon's jaws snapped shut, even if Hawke didn't move a muscle. Slowly, carefully, the assassin smiled, and he leaned back in his chair. "Now, now, where did you hear that? I might be willing to give you a discount for a name."

"I don't give up my informants," Anders retorted briskly. "Nor would you, I suspect. Can you do this?"

"It depends on the idea."

"It's... a machine." That much he knew. "A machine that takes magic away from a mage. The Knight-Commander calls it the 'Tranquil Solution'."

Hawke frowned at him. "That's improbable."

"It no longer is. That's why I need you. I need you to make it improbable again."

Hawke watched him for a long time, fingers tapping lightly on the table, then he glanced up and to his right, addressing thin air. "Well? What do you think?"

Anders blinked as a woman materialized at Hawke's shoulder, dressed in a simple blue and white frock, a tan trench coat over her slender shoulders, deep, thick hair the same color as Hawke's in rich waves framing her heart-shaped face. A sister. And perched openly on her shoulder, to his shock, was a white tern, his wings spreading briefly before clipping shut again.

"Mm." Hawke's sister stroked Hawke's shoulder briefly. "He's sincere about what he wants."

"But not in full?"

She chuckled, with a nod of her chin towards Pounce. "Glamor. He's quite good, though. Even Gabe was almost fooled." The tern chirped, sounding cross. "I said 'almost', didn't I?"

"He's a mage?" Hawke shook his head slowly, then he pushed himself up from the table. "Then we're done here."

"Wait-" Anders protested, rising hastily to his feet. "What's wrong with that? Your _sister's_ a mage!"

Hawke's sister smiled briefly and pityingly at him, then she faded away again, with a gesture of her fingers. Hawke pursed his lips, and his right knee shifted a little, his poise turning battle-ready. "I'm not in the mood right now to go into graphic detail, but if you value your life, serah, you never saw her. I'll have my men drop you back where you were. If you behave, they might even do it gently."

"No, wait!" Anders circled around the table quickly and grabbed Hawke by the wrist instinctively. He saw Hawke's eyes narrow, and after a rushed, crowded moment, found himself pinned to the table, his arm pulled around his back.

"Don't," Hawke said carefully, enunciating each word with deadly precision, "Touch me again."

Pounce was dancing on the table in panic, babbling, _nopleaselethimgoplease_ , then she squeaked as the gray wolf abruptly picked her up bodily, shaking her. "Anders!"

"Please," Anders begged then, "Please let her go, please. I never saw... _please_."

"Good." Hawke let go of him at the same time that the wolf let go of Pounce, and Anders scooped his daemon up as she scrambled into his arms, the glamor already dropped in his fright, her small body burrowing into his shirt as he whispered soothingly to her, stroking her maimed wings lovingly as she shook.

"Would you fancy that," Hawke said dryly. "A bloody mockingbird, dressed up as a cat. Apt. Good day, serah. If you're lucky, we'll never meet again."

Anders was still shaking long after he was bundled out, blindfolded, and deposited back at the Hanged Man, staring after the hansom as it rattled away down the smog-soaked streets. He hurried home, Pounce hidden in the deep pocket of his coat, running blindly down narrow, stinking alleys into the oily, dark bowels of Kirkwall, the rotting tallow lamps already casting their thick greasy miasma over graffiti-scarred stone and plaster, the whistling bellows from the workhouses falling slowly silent as night blanketed Darktown and turned the destitute phantasmagoria of its narrow sloop houses and crooked chimney factories dark and dangerous.

He let himself into his clinic with shaking hands, and made a bee-line for the nearest cot, curling up around Pounce and waiting, eyes tightly shut. It was only after Pounce stopped trembling that Anders felt the sharp edge of something small and rectangular poking against his hip.

Fumbling in his other coat pocket, Anders drew out a white card, that smelled of women's perfume, an oil of lavender and jasmine. Behind it was a phone number, printed in a neat hand.

II.

Despite Pounce's strenuous protests, Anders called the number after clinic hours the next day. He had his suspicions, but desperation proved stronger than his sense of self preservation, apparently. After the fourth ring, someone picked up. "Hello?" Anders asked, cautiously.

"Hold on." It was Hawke's sister, and there was the sound of the phone receiver being placed on a table as she backed away, closing a door in a distance, then the phone being picked up again. "Serah Anders. I am so sorry about the other day."

"Don't be. It wasn't you." Anders took in a deep breath. "And it's what he does, isn't it. Your brother."

"No," Hawke's sister said, a little sadly, "No it isn't. I'm Bethany, by the way. Listen, about what you said, that machine, how does it work?" At Anders' silence, she added, dryly, "Vested interest."

Pounce, seated in cat guise again beside the phone, shook her head quickly, but Anders took another, deep breath. "You know how they keep the mages docile in the Gallows? In any Circle?"

"My father grew up in a Circle. He told us." Bethany's voice was tight. "They lock up the daemons in the strongroom. Hurt them if the mages misbehave." Her voice softened a little. "I saw your daemon's wings."

Anders instinctively reached out to stroke Pounce over her glamored head, even as he took a deep breath, fought down the memories, held down and begging, _crying_ , beside the guillotine- "There've still been escapes." How could there not? "The templars have been trying an alternative solution for a long time. A 'Tranquil Solution'. They're going to use it on mages who misbehave, who run away, or who've performed... misdeeds. At first."

"How does it work?"

"I'm not certain. We got our hands on one of the... one of the victims," Anders said, closing his eyes and clenching his hands into fists tightly to press down the instinctive surge of temper. "We can't get much out of him. But the magic in him, it's gone."

There was a long, pregnant pause, as he could hear Bethany thinking this over, then she said, "Can I meet him?"

"Your brother-"

"I'm not a prisoner, serah," Bethany said, a little impatiently. "My brother may not approve, but he's a busy man. And you do want his help, don't you?"

Pounce reared back, panicked all over again, and Anders grit his teeth, curling his fingers tightly onto the table. "Maker help me, but I do."

"Then you'd best convince me that this is worth his time. Where can I meet you?" Bethany asked briskly.

"Lowtown, tomorrow, at this hour, in the eastern corner of the marketplace." Anders hesitated. "About your brother... he didn't want to work for a mage."

"He has his reasons."

"But-"

" _Good_ reasons," Bethany cut in. "You're lucky that he let you live, serah. I'll see you tomorrow."

The line went dead, and slowly, Anders put down the receiver. Pounce scampered up his arm, rubbing her cheek against his jaw. "You're not going, are you? This is insane. Her brother's a psychopath. And she seems nice, but the really dangerous psychopaths will all seem nice."

"And when did you get around meeting psychopaths?" Anders asked, managing a tired grin.

"Calenhad Circle?"

Anders exhaled, guilt twisting tight in his gut, sour and sickly. "Pounce, I'm-"

"Yes, yes. That wasn't your fault, love, never." He could, however, feel Pounce's wings brush against his neck, under her guise, for reassurance. "He was going to kill us, you know. I saw it in his eyes. In their eyes, him and his wolf."

"Then it'll just be like home. Minus the silver armor and the regulation moustaches. Lots of dog daemons in the Circles." The templar order attracted people who were good at following orders, after all. "We need his help. You saw what happened to Karl. What they'd do to everyone."

"I know. I know," Pounce said, miserably. "Poor Thekla, she's so... well. We can't let that happen to anyone else. We can't." Pounce fluffed up, as though taking courage in this conviction. "Though I wonder what happened. To Hawke. The one who isn't so nice."

"A lot of people hate mages," Anders shrugged. "And as much as I hate to say it, some of them do have good reasons. I don't care what his convictions are, if he can do what we need him to do."

"He could turn us in."

Anders grimaced, head bent, bile rising in his throat as he remembered the Circle, the strongroom, the bloodied feathers, Pounce pinned to the... "No. I don't think he will. He's more likely to just kill us."

"So reassuring," Pounce sighed. "You light up my life, love."

"I try."

III.

Bethany faded into view beside him once Anders arrived at the agreed spot, clutching at his staff nervously and looking around over the canvas-covered hulks of sleeping stalls and empty stands, and he had to bite down hard on his lower lip to stifle his yelp of shock.

"You're alone?" Anders asked, trying not to make it too obvious that he was looking for a man with a wolf daemon.

Bethany smiled at him, evidently amused by his reaction. "Yes. I'm alone." There was a sleek, small black cat on her shoulder, which sat carefully still - a passable glamor, if her daemon didn't move. "Let's go, shall we?"

"Of course." Anders threaded his way through the canvas hulks, hailing a cab. If Bethany had any shadows, they'd be easier to notice.

No other cab or hansom seemed to peel after them as they lined up into the evening traffic, heading at a sedate pace to the west end, under the musty light from gas lamps and the deadening smog. The cabbie's horse was a listless nag, his daemon a scrawny rat that lay curled on the seat beside him, and the cab smelled of old vomit and beer. Bethany sat demurely in a corner, looking around with sharp interest, and seemed disinclined to talk.

"So," Anders said, ignoring how Pounce prodded him in the ear. "Do you work with your brother?"

"In a sense. I don't usually do field work." Bethany said lightly. "He's a little protective."

"I can imagine." Anders stifled a groan. He was, indeed, bloody suicidal, Andraste save him. "What with that delightful little segue the other day."

"I help him in other ways."

"He'll use a... well, he'll use you?"

"He doesn't hate what we are," Bethany elaborated, after a moment's thought. "It's the trick you did that sets him off. Yes, it's necessary, he knows that, rationally."

"So it's an irrational reason? What _is_ it? Look," Anders said, more persuasively, "If whatever hang up your brother has might endanger me and my friends... all of them use the same trick, by the way, to varying success... maybe, maybe I have to try and find someone else."

"He'll be fine. He has nothing against mages in general, I mean, _I'm_ a mage, and my father was one, as well. Garrett just doesn't react well when he's fooled by it. I haven't met a mage with a better, more lifelike glamor than yours. I only picked it up myself when the edges of the whiskers of Pounce's guise clipped briefly into your collar." Bethany said evasively, then she sighed, as Anders made as though to signal the cabbie.

"All right. A few years ago, someone used that trick to make himself seem... normal. You know how the daemons of blood mages look like, with the red eyes, he hid that. He got close to my mother when I wasn't there. My brother and I were away at that time, on extended business in Nevarra. My mother was a widow and she gets... got lonely when we're away, and... when we got back, our uncle was frantic, and she was gone. My younger brother with her. It seems that he tried to look for her himself, about a day or so before we came back. He'd sent us a note, but it didn't reach us, we were already on our way back anyway."

Anders looked down at Pounce, who was huddled next to him again. They weren't going to like this story. "Did you-"

"We looked." Bethany said flatly. "Three days after that, the guard found our brother's body, floating facedown off Dock two. And when we found Mother, we were too late."

Anders found that his hands were clenched, so tight that his palms hurt. "Did you kill the man who did it?" he asked, surprised at the note of savagery in his own tone.

Bethany swung her stare at him, and there was sadness there, as well as a touch of steel. "After a while."

Pounce shuddered again, and there was nothing that Anders could say to that; they sat in a cold, uncomfortable silence until the cabbie rattled to a halt outside their destination - an alley beside a grocer's shop, closed for the day. Anders paid up, and the cabbie lit off immediately, wary. The west end of Lowtown belonged to New Migrants, mostly refugees from Ferelden's long and bloody civil war, of late, and from its raucous pubs to its seedy alcoves, trick shops, knack markets and undercurrency, it was a close to lawless zone that even the city guard would only touch in a full, armed patrol.

Bethany didn't seem worried - why would she be, her brother's name carried weight in dark corners as these - and Anders led her down the dank alley, turning corners and squeezing carefully over refuse heaps and sodden crates until he found the door tucked into a dead end. He knocked on it, thrice, then whispered the password as the spy latch slid open. There was a click, then another, and Lirene opened the door, her eyes hunted, while Foster, her daemon, a small brown terrier, huddled close to her heels. She blinked at Bethany in surprise, if without recognition, but made no comment as she locked the door behind them.

"Interested third party," Anders said quickly. "This is Lirene, and uh-"

"I'm Beth." Bethany shook Lirene's hand firmly. "I'm a consultant."

"We're here to see Karl, Lirene."

"Oh." Lirene's face crumpled a little. "Anders, he hasn't changed. And, with all respect, if you're paying serah Beth here, she isn't going to-"

"Free consultation," Bethany interrupted brightly, and Lirene looked her over dubiously.

"She has an idea about the Tranquil Solution. Don't worry," Anders said quietly, "She's a sympathizer." Or at least, he hoped that she was.

Reassured, Lirene nodded slowly, and led them up a stairway from the empty room. The second floor had been more comfortably furnished, with a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk, and even a tatty yellow rug that lurked just out of the stairway, and a grimy, narrow window set beside the desk.

Seated at the desk, his shoulders bent, Karl was folding a paper crane, each motion precise, unnaturally measured. Beside him, her eyes blank, his blackbird daemon Thekla stood, her wings drooped, watching them with incurious eyes.

Karl turned when Lirene said, as kindly as possible, "Karl. You have visitors."

As always, Karl's blank, dulled eyes shot a twist of pain and sadness through him, and on his shoulder, Pounce made a low, moaning sound. "Anders. You have a friend." His voice was in a monotone, and Bethany gasped.

"What _happened_ to him?"

"The magic's gone. Or if it's still there, he won't or can't use it. He'll... he'll obey commands," Anders said tiredly, "Any command. From anyone. We had to keep him here, where no one could get to him. He doesn't remember what happened, only that he was brought to the third basement in the Gallows after the templars apprehended him in Lowtown."

Bethany was striding forward, and Karl watched her with his disconcerting calm, even as she looked him over and pressed her palm to his forehead, then to his neck. "Life signs seem normal."

"He's physically fine. I'm a healer." Anders said, his teeth clenched. "I've tried everything."

"The templars just set him free after what they did?" Bethany's tone had a hard edge to it.

"Right back where they caught him." Lirene said flatly. "If Rob hadn't happened to be passing by, Maker knows what might have happened to Karl. Anders, I couldn't reach you earlier, but there's been another... Mayra was found in the Docks. She'd wandered into a... there was a..." Lirene let out a deep, shaky breath. "Some sailors were, were _using_ her. The guards stopped them, but she didn't survive. I'm sorry."

Anders let out a low, gasping sob, hugging himself, even as Pounce nudged her head under his chin. Mayra had only been _eighteen_ , Maker, only one more day, the ship that the underground had arranged to take her to Rivain would have arrived... "What happened to... she was being _guarded_ , what happened to Samson?"

"Tipper looked in his bolthole. Someone gutted Samson and left him to die. Wouldn't have been clean. Or fast." Lirene's eyes were narrowed. "Could have been anyone, though. Samson owed the Coterie a lot of money, over his lyrium habit. You're not safe, Anders. Your clinic's too obvious."

"I can't just close it. People need me," Anders protested. "They can't afford healing otherwise." He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. "I can't close."

"At least hide until you've... you've stopped whatever this is." Lirene insisted. "If you're picked off the street, if you become... if they turn you into Karl, then there'd be no healer anyway. That goes for you as well, miss," Lirene turned to Bethany, who was busy checking Thekla's eyes, all the while careful not to touch the daemon. "I've sent word to all the others who are Out."

"The free clinic in Darktown," Bethany glanced up, looking thoughtful. "That's run by you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You're not the Carta's favorite person," Bethany said, with the ghost of a grin, even as her tern made a soft trill of amusement, abandoning the glamor. "They had this nice racket running on watered down healing potions, without someone coming in with good, free ones and ruining the market."

"I don't care," Anders said defensively. "People need the potions. What with the war in Ferelden, the refugees who come here have nothing. Nor do the poor in Darktown."

"However _did_ you cobble together the coin to hire my... to hire a specialist?" Bethany asked, curious.

"It wasn't mine," Anders conceded.

"Mage underground's," Pounce piped in, as Bethany raised her eyebrows.

She looked to the tern. "Gabe?"

"He's one hundred percent A-grade idiot," the tern said, in his fluting voice. "But your brother likes that kind of person. I think he'll be persuaded."

"Thanks," Bethany said dryly, even as Pounce yelped, indignant, "Hey!"

"We've got to help him," Gabe continued, ignoring Pounce, gently grooming an unresponsive Thekla. "Look at this poor thing. Look at _them_. It could have been us."

"If whatever it was did this to him, maybe it could fix him," Bethany suggested.

"Maybe." Anders said quietly. 'Maybe not." He didn't dare hope. "Our priority is destroying it." He hated his words as he said them - it felt like a betrayal, but he forced himself to say them.

"Mm." Bethany straightened up, and Gabe hopped up onto her arm, then fluttered over to her shoulders. "I'll talk to my brother. If he takes the job, I'll let you know. In the meantime," she added, "You might want to lie low for a while. Move the clinic elsewhere."

IV.

He hadn't wanted to, but Lirene begged, cajoled, and finally strong-armed him into moving the clinic to Lowtown, simply by having all the refugees start moving the cots, supplies and equipment despite his protests. It was late in the evening when Anders finally healed the last patient, shooing the less-than-grateful, wailing, no longer colicky baby away with her grateful parents and assorted daemons, and collapsing tiredly on a cot, drawing his hand over his eyes.

He looked up sharply when Pounce's clawed feet dug sharply into his arm. "Wake up, wake up!"

Anders grabbed for his staff, which was leaning against the wall behind him, swinging himself off the bed so quickly that he got dizzy. He stumbled, caught himself, then nearly fell over as he saw Hawke stroll into the new clinic, looking around with an air of studied curiosity, the gray wolf at his heels. He was dressed - Maker help him - sleek and dapper in a black, pinstripe vest with a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black trousers muddied in their neat folds over his loafers, and for one, long, insane moment, Anders _wanted_ so much that his mouth watered. The moment was quick to pass: Pounce was so frightened that she was huddled inside his collar, against his neck, the edges of the glamor no doubt clipping through his clothes.

"Good evening," Anders said, going for wary politeness as he calculated the quickest path to the door up into the alley exit.

Hawke nodded at him, his expression... amiable, for want of a better word. "So Bethany was right. You _are_ running the free clinic."

"Yes."

"My father used to be a healer," Hawke said, tracing a gloved finger idly over one of the operating tables. "In Lothering. Then the pesky civil war happened, over that equally pesky concept known as 'succession', and he got himself gutted by some King's Men that he happened to heal up, when they were delirious and dying. Apostates aren't a common sight in the Bannorn."

"I'm... sorry to hear that." Anders picked his words with care, uncertain. Hawke had said all that without emotion, and Anders wasn't entirely sure if Bethany was around, waiting and invisible.

"Don't be. It was a friendly warning." Hawke grinned, showing all his teeth.

"Then I suppose a 'thank you' is in order instead?" Anders couldn't help the note of terseness that crept into his voice.

The gray wolf sniffed, as it shook itself, padding over to peek at the crates of herbs. "He's your type, all right. Gabriel was spot on. Hundred per cent idiot."

"Shut up, 'Mari." Hawke said drily, even as Anders blinked at them both in confusion. "Serah Anders. It has been brought, in excruciating detail, to my attention, that perhaps we ended our business discussion too abruptly, and in a very heavy-handed manner, and for that, I apologize." With a flourish, Hawke executed a courtly bow that would have been the envy of any politician.

"So you'll take up my commission?" Anders asked, hopefully.

"Do you actually have the coin?"

Anders reached into the inner pocket of his coat, and tossed the pouch to Hawke. "Ten sovereigns. Another ten if you're successful."

"My dear misguided free healer," Hawke drawled, without pocketing the pouch, "I was paid five times this amount for a similar job in Antiva. Plus expenses. Twenty is what I charge for a _normal_ 'job'."

"Five _times_..!" Anders paled. "It'd take _years _to... I... could I pay it off any other way?"__

"Oh, here we go," 'Mari murmured, even as she continued her slow, sniffing inspection of the clinic. "Charity work. My sodding _favorite_."

"In normal circumstances, I would refuse. I have competing, and better paying offers at this time," Hawke said heavily. "But-"

"Bethany is _very_ good at emotional blackmail. You should be proud," 'Mari told Hawke.

"Oh, and who did she learn that from pray tell?" Hawke shot back evenly, though he smirked at Anders. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, I'll get some people to watch this place and protect my dubious investment."

"You're all heart, Garrett." 'Mari padded back to Hawke's side. "Clear."

"Thank you, darling." Hawke retorted, turning to saunter back to the entrance of the clinic, with a careless backward wave. Just as Anders began to sink back onto the bed in sheer relief, the assassin paused. "Ah yes, and one more thing." He glanced over his shoulder. " _Don't_ contact my sister again."

Pounce wouldn't emerge from under his collar until an hour later, her maimed wings dragging over his skin. "That went well," she said, in a small voice.

"I hope so." They were alive, that was always a plus. "Maybe we're getting better at understanding the criminal element."

Pounce shuddered. "If you're going to say that it makes life exciting, I'm going to peck you."

V.

"You don't really need me to be here," Anders said weakly, once Lirene had left Hawke and himself alone in Karl's room. Karl was obediently filling in floor plans of the Gallows basements with drawings of equipment locations, his eyes still blank, his brow not even creased with concentration.

Hawke seemed amused, but 'Mari ignored them both, carefully sniffing Thekla. "Trust me with your 'I'll do whatever you tell me to' friend, eh?"

"It's not like I could stop you if you wanted to do anything to him," Anders pointed out, Pounce still hidden under his collar.

"True," Hawke admitted. "But I usually make it a policy only to kill people who I've been paid to kill. 'Mari has this thing against charity work."

Anders decided not to bring up Bethany's opinion that she had been surprised that Hawke hadn't killed Anders himself for hiding Pounce under a glamor, in case Hawke ended up trying to rectify an oversight. "So, about you calling me here..."

"Usually I let my employer in on the preparation process. Just to show him that he isn't wasting his coin."

"But I'm not paying you enough to-"

Hawke scowled, and it was 'Mari who replied, with a wry, "Don't remind him. He's been as sour as a bear with a bad toothache."

"Force of bloody habit," Hawke muttered. "I suppose where _you_ are concerned, we're looking to show you how much you really _should_ be paying us." The assassin was sidling back behind Karl, watching him sketch in and label placements, black gloved hands folded at the small of his sleek back. Anders stared fixedly at the narrow window and tried not to track the arch of Hawke's spine with his peripheral vision.

"What are you going to do with the plans?" Anders asked, hoping to edge away from an evidently touchy subject.

Hawke shrugged. "I need a rough idea of the layout before I break into the Gallows, don't I?"

"You're going to _what_?" Anders and Pounce yelped at the same time.

Hawke smirked at him, with that damnable roguish twist to his mouth that tugged sharply and inadvisably at Anders' battered libido, but thankfully, 'Mari saved him from having to stutter out a demand by talking. "Standard reconnaissance," the wolf said, sniffing the air delicately but without looking around from her study of the motionless Thekla. "Won't be the first time we've gone into the Gallows."

"Won't... won't you be a little noticeable?" Pounce asked hesitantly, from under Anders' collar. "The templars all have dog daemons, the servants too, mostly, and the mages won't-"

"A little paint and a gait change and you'll be surprised." 'Mari said evasively. _Glamor_ , Anders thought, surprised at the faint savagery of the thought. Hypocrite. Wolf daemons were rare, and would be noticeable no matter how much paint or dye Hawke slathered on 'Mari. Bethany would have to have a hand in it, he was sure.

"I'll be surprised," he agreed evenly, refusing to look away even as Hawke arched an eyebrow at him. Instead of growing irritated, however, or reacting poorly, the assassin smirked again, with a touch of humor in his amber eyes, even as Karl sat straighter, placing the quill carefully down on the desk, his task complete. Gently, 'Mari took the map from the table, and passed it to her human.

Hawke ran a practiced eye over the plans, then he scrolled them and bound them neatly with a twist of ribbon. "Right. I'll get the cab to drop you back at your clinic."

"You're staying here?" Anders wasn't sure if the edge to his tone was from disappointment or worry for Karl.

"I have some contacts in this part of town," Hawke tipped his hat in a mocking gesture of respect. "After 'Mari and I have more information, I'll contact you again, if you'd like to be updated, serah."

"I would." Anders said, even as he felt Pounce breathe out a soft sigh against his neck. "When would that be?"

"I'll let you know." Hawke moved _fast_ ; Anders flinched when the assassin was abruptly standing beside him, near the stair, a hand pressed firmly against his spine, low and intimate on his back. "Let's leave the poor man alone, shall we?"

"Good-bye, Anders," Karl intoned, from the desk, looking up mechanically, and the instinctive sorrow and anger he felt whenever Karl spoke to him thankfully balanced out the shock he felt at the sudden, warm touch. Even as he blinked stupidly at Hawke, however, 'Mari was already trotting past down the steep stairway, and Hawke tipped his hat again with a playful wink before following his daemon.

"What was _that_?" Anders murmured to Pounce, when he heard the door open, then close, below on the ground floor.

"That, meant that you're in big trouble, love," Pounce decided, mournfully. "Again. As usual."

VI.

Anders had only ever walked past the Dome, usually giving its flutter of well-heeled perfumed Hightown ladies and gentry a discreet berth. Theatre had never interested him before, nor had he ever had the coin to spare, and as such, he felt thoroughly lost and out of place even in his borrowed finery when the stone-faced usher discreetly hustled him up a narrow flight of stairs and into a corridor lined with black doors, along a thick, plush maroon strip of carpet. He was shown into one of the rooms, the door closed quickly behind him, and both Anders and Pounce found themselves blinking and dazed, in a box seat with a fair view of the Pit and the black velvet curtained stage.

"Champagne?" Hawke asked, already sprawled on one of the mahogany-armed chairs, a bronze spyglass in one white-gloved hand, hair slicked back and looking as sleekly handsome as any of the young merchant or blue-blood lords settling into the other box seats on their level. 'Mari was curled around his feet, her fur brushed, trimmed, and dyed a gorgeous tawny gold; it made her look like a beautifully bred courser rather than the wolf that she was, on first glance, but the shape of her loping stride and her ruff would not fool a practiced eye for long.

"No thank you," Anders said, but Hawke passed him a glass anyway, motioning that he sit down beside him. "Uh. Was this necessary?"

An unmarked carriage had shown up at his clinic after hours, and a gruff man had pushed a wrapped package consisting of a pressed cream dress shirt and a three piece suit, complete with shoes and a bow tie, into his hands, topped off with a sleek barred brown hawk's feather, and curtly instructed him to get ready. In his surprise, inadvisably, Anders hadn't thought to protest.

"Of course it was. Look there," Hawke gestured with his spyglass. "Two boxes to our left, that thin, beaky man with the tufts of white hair. Don't stare. Sit down."

"What about him?" Anders sat, obediently.

"He's Orlesian," Hawke passed him a program, printed on thick paper in neat, flowing script. "Part of the Divine's private council on mage policy. Dottore Jules d'Orsay."

"Mage oppression," Anders muttered, trying not to look over for too long. The beaky man didn't seem older than fifty years or so; his hair was white, but his movements were alert and firm. He was speaking quietly to a tall man in a three-piece black suit, whose features Anders couldn't make out, and even as he watched the box out of the corner of his eye, the door to it opened, and a pair of templars strode out, clad in their distinctive, magic-grounding Variance silver embossed armor, that made them look like relics of an earlier age. One was helmeted, and he stood before the door, arms folded. The other was a woman with a profile distinctive to any apostate in Kirkwall, a blonde mane of hair framing angular features and hard blue eyes. _Meredith_.

"Calm down," Hawke sounded amused, and Anders realized that he was gripping the assassin's right wrist tightly.

Flushing, he let go, pretending to read the program, though Pounce hid quickly in the shadow of his body. "Are you _crazy_? Pounce and I shouldn't be here!" Anders hissed under his breath, setting down his champagne glass on the low mahogany side table.

"They're here for the theatre, not mage-hunting," Hawke said blithely, unrepentant. "As much as it might come as a shock, it seems that templars _do_ have lives beyond making the lives of your kind living hells and whatnot. I needed to get close to them, and this is safe enough."

"You could have done that yourself!"

"Shh," Hawke was... Hawke was _petting his thigh_ , Anders realized, his flush deepening, frozen to his chair instead of shrugging off the contact, his fingers long and rough and _sure_. "How good are you with the glamor spells? Can you do a whole person _and_ the daemon? How close do you need to be?"

"I..." Anders desperately exerted all the control he could will up over his body, fighting down the lust, taking deep breaths until his tailored breeches didn't feel quite so tight. "I'm good for about twenty metres. You won't need to be in sight of me. And 'Mari's already mostly disguised, it won't be hard to just change a few aspects of the both of you."

"That's better than Beth, and she doesn't have the control for crowded spaces. Like the push towards the mezzanine vox courts, during the intermission," Hawke elaborated, when Anders stared at him, confused, his voice low and soft, lips pressed almost against Anders' left ear, as though whispering to a lover. "Do it for me. I need to pick Meredith's pockets. Or the Dottore's. The security system on the second basement level can't be cracked. I've tried. Oh, and Meredith's a sharp old biddy, and she's seen me before, so it'd have to be a very _good_ glamor."

"You're... you're going to what?" Anders whispered back, if in a low hiss.

"It'll be easy during the intermission."

"What if they don't leave the box?"

"Then I'll improvise." Hawke said, unconcerned. "Beth was very impressed with your glamor. It should be enough to fool a templar on short contact. Have you thought about contract work with one of those Paliseme circii? You could be paid well. If you don't mind stars and spangles."

"What are you going to take from her?" Pounce whispered, against Anders.

"You'll see, darling," 'Mari drawled, clearly amused at her human's playacting. "Deep breaths, the both of you. There's not nearly enough violence for the play to be interesting to me, but you might both enjoy all the caterwauling."

Anders took refuge in the program, mustering enough self-control to nudge Hawke's too-warm gloved palm off the far-too-thin fabric of his pants. "It's in Orlesian," he pointed out.

"I'll translate."

Anders nodded slowly, settling back uncomfortably as Hawke kept up a murmured, playful stream of questions about his clinic, his hobbies, and increasingly personal matters; distracted and stressed by his proximity to the Knight-Commander of the bloody _templars_ , Anders kept up monosyllabic answers. Eventually, Hawke sighed.

"Don't look so sullen, darling. You'll draw attention."

"Stop calling me that." Anders muttered.

"We have a box all to ourselves," Hawke was petting him again, though higher up now, nearly at his knee. "Think of it as playing a part. People automatically avert their eyes from lovers, and disregard them. It's camouflage."

"Then I'll play the part of the disaffected paramour," Anders retorted, folding his arms tightly. "Stop touching me, please."

'Mari made a soft, huffing sound, like laughter, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, and Garrett glared briefly at his daemon. Thankfully, before the assassin could come up with an undoubtedly shameless segue, a roiling drumroll from the orchestral pit signalled the start of the play, and the velvet drapes began to part. Colorfully, richly dressed men and women minced out onto the stage, and despite himself Anders found himself getting absorbed by the play. The program had provided him with an outline of the play, and Hawke kept up a running, murmured translation beside him.

As far as he could tell the play was about a mageborn son to a minor noble family, his talent hidden by his family from the Chantry, until he reached maturity and became acquainted with a common peasant girl and a princess at the same time through gross coincidence. The mageborn's actor's daemon was a fox, decked in feathers to look like a cross between a chicken and a goose but which was, apparently, meant to be an eagle, and the methods of costume concealment that the play used were both laughably archaic and impossible. From that point the plot seemed to get unnecessarily depressing and complicated, and when the intermission came, Anders stretched carefully, Pounce yawning, blinking as the theatre brightened.

"Good?" Hawke murmured, against his ear, and Anders flinched, suddenly noting the proximity.

"Why is Meredith watching this?" Anders asked, frowning. "It's almost... It's almost _mage-friendly_."

Hawke shrugged. "Presumably everyone dies tragically in the end. The play is Orlesian, after all. Or maybe she'll get it censored. Are you ready?"

It took Anders a moment to realize what Hawke was referring to, then he swallowed. "I'm ready."

He concentrated, tracing glyphs as unobtrusively as he could against the leg of his chair, expecting shouts from the Templars at any moment, then Hawke let out a low, impressed whistle, and 'Mari shook out her new form: a beautifully bred golden retriever courser.

"Not bad," 'Mari noted. "Useful trick."

"We'll be back soon," Hawke got up from his seat. "Stay here and keep the glamor up."

Waiting was an interminable torture. Anders stared at the same page of the program without reading it, the chatter of the crowd stretching out their legs or heading for the intermission voxes loud in a incoherent blanket of buzzing sound around him, as he imagined one disaster after another. Hawke caught, his confident, lazy smirk freezing into a slack gape as a templar kineblade sundered his ribcage. Hawke, snarling and fighting to the last, bloody and broken, a dagger in one hand and his revolver in the other, as the crowd screamed and stampeded, 'Mari howling as she tore at Meredith's huge white hound.

He flinched violently with a gasp when someone abruptly tapped him on his shoulder, and rising, Anders almost let out a moan of relief to see that it was Hawke, and 'Mari, the door to their box seat closed behind them.

"Missed me?" Hawke grinned roguishly, and Anders traced the outline of Hawke's full, pretty mouth with his eyes before flushing and looking away.

"That was fast. Did you get whatever you wanted?"

"Not entirely," Hawke purred, looking Anders up and down with a lascivious eye, back turned to the other box seats behind them as he briefly made a white access card appear in his gloved palm, then making it disappear again down his sleeve.

Anders swallowed hard, and tried to look impassive. "Then we can leave."

"And how obvious would that be?" Hawke tugged at his wrist, and despite himself, Anders sat down, uncomfortably. "We'll leave when they do. Honestly, the both of you,' you're going to make _me_ nervous. And it's never a good idea to make someone with an array of concealed and illegal weaponry nervous."

"What if... what if they notice that they're missing the card?" Pounce murmured, tense.

"They won't. I replaced it. On their way home they'll have a minor accident with an cart carrying a faulty electrolytic engine. Malfunctions are known to happen, most tragic."

"How long more before you-" Anders asked, but Hawke sighed, and 'Mari cut him off with a huffing sound, like laughter, or derision.

"It depends on how many people hold the idea in their minds." 'Mari explained.

"Won't you need another glamor when you're in the basement?"

"You're full of questions," 'Mari muttered, teeth bared, though Anders kept Hawke's steely-eyed stare even as Pounce huddled against him.

"We'll manage." Hawke smiled warmly, though it didn't touch his eyes, and before Anders could tentatively try another query, a burst of drums and brass notes from the orchestra signaled the start of the second Act.

In the second act, for rather trivial and arbitrary reasons, the mageborn nobleman seemed determined to sleep with the peasant girl, the princess and an equally arbitrarily introduced third female character that Pounce insisted that she recalled from the first Act. 'Mari dozed while Anders and Pounce quietly debated this point; and then the serenades started, and Hawke's translated took on a velvet, charged note that Anders, Maker help him, wasn't sure if he disliked. The songs were rather more explicit than Anders thought possible for common decency, and at the last, during Hawke's whispered, seductive drawl of exactly what the nobleman wanted to do to the inexplicably virgin peasant girl and how, he had to grip Hawke's hand, squirming.

"Don't translate any more," Anders gasped, flushed, biting hard on his lower lip and hoping desperately that the dimmed light hid the curve of his arousal. "Please."

Hawke stared at him for a moment, the gleam in his amber eyes predatory, then he smiled his charming smile and patted Anders' hand mockingly. "All right."

Anders managed to get himself back under control by the time the interminable play ended, with the deaths of all the main characters, unable to gain the frame of mind to be impressed by the stagecraft disappearances of the 'dead' actors' daemons, and it seemed like another eternity before Meredith's box emptied. Hawke slipped out of their boxed seat for a moment, then he returned, his charmer's demeanor now brusque and businesslike. "We can leave. I'll walk you to a carriage, it'll take you home."

"Where are you going?" Anders asked, somewhat off-balance by the abrupt change to Hawke's attitude.

Hawke grinned at him, briefly, and the access card slipped up into sight, in Hawke's other palm, and back into his sleeve. "For a walk in the park."

VII.

It was two weeks before he saw Hawke again, and he'd spent most of those nights tormented with soft-focused dreams of lust that woke him aching or guiltily spent. If he could have spared the coin for a visit to the Blooming Rose, Anders might have caved, but as it was, he spent the mornings huddled and flushed in his bed.

When he was working, he could leave his dangerous desires behind, and he threw himself into clinic work with a studied enthusiasm that startled Lirene. Hawke was obviously toying with him, for whatever reason Anders couldn't immediately discern. Perhaps it was malice; either a subtle form of revenge for their first meeting, or for Anders' inability to pay a full fee. As the days passed, Anders had to admit to himself (though never to Pounce) that if it got the job done faster, he wouldn't be absolutely against... Maker... paying off the fee or supplementing it with other services, and deep down he knew that he would likely even enjoy it.

The dreams worsened, encompassing increasingly detailed fantasies about Hawke 'demanding' said supplementary services from him, in his clinic, in a hansom cab, in the attic room... and he spent his free time distracted, jumping at shadows, until even Pounce began to grow irritable.

"You should do something about it," she murmured, as Anders knocked on the safe house's door. Lirene had moved Karl into another terrace house, further away, into the outskirts of the city, in order to house another pair of Tranquil mages that they had picked up off the streets, thankfully before they had been harmed. One did not recall her name, and sat, blank-eyed, all day on a chair, with her equally blank-eyed canary daemon on her shoulder. The other was called Alexius, and he looked like a Starkhaven man, tanned, his voice accented, a small brown owl always held in his arms, one of its legs permanently twisted and broken.

"Do what?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Pounce resentfully dug her taloned feet through the glamor into his shoulder.

"What, just pick someone off the street? We have to stay safe." Anders wasn't very good at holding glamors when his concentration was... compromised. "Hush," he added, as one of Lirene's volunteers opened the door fearfully to admit him, gesturing upwards.

"Mage underground?" Pounce suggested, once they were ascending the stairwell. "There was a nice kid who likes looking at you. Michel, I think his name was, the one with that wren daemon Ellaniele?"

Anders shuddered. "No thanks. He's not really my, well, I'm not interested."

"The person you _are_ interested in right _now_ is a-"

"Is a what?" 'Mari enquired, poking her great, gray head out of the narrow entryway at the top of the stairs, and to Anders' shock, he nearly tumbled all the way back down again.

" _'Mari?_ " Pounce yelped, diving quickly under Anders' collar.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," 'Mari said, sitting down, her tongue lolling out from her jaws, amused. "Did I mention that the sight of small animals hiding from me tends to make me hungry? No, don't panic, I was joking. _Maker_. Go on up. Garrett's almost done talking to Alexius."

Cautiously, Anders edged past the wolf daemon and into the room. It was bare, and the unnamed girl, whom Lirene had called 'Faith', sat in a corner, unmoving. Even as he looked at her, Anders had to swallow his instinctive anger; she was so _young_ , and the shock of whatever had been done to her had been so great that unlike Karl and Alexius, she no longer seemed able to speak. The templars were merciless. Monstrous.

Pounce chirped softly against his ear, and Anders took in a deep breath, following 'Mari into the adjoining room. Hawke glanced up with an arched eyebrow when he approached, and nodded at Alexius, who sat down at a desk, hands in his lap, his daemon on his shoulder.

"Anders."

"You're... you seem well," Anders corrected himself, hating that he had stuttered. "How goes it? Why are you here?"

"Just checking on the mage I brought in," Hawke said, unconcerned. "To see if he had any other perspective on the procedure."

A chilling, sickening thought occurred to Anders. "Any 'other' perspective? You mean..."

"You asked me to get rid of an idea, Anders," Hawke said calmly, his eyes narrowed. "That means I have to understand every aspect of it. It's a machine, an electrolytic-steam machine. Two cages in its heart, one for a daemon, one for the human, a aftlife-kineblade guillotine alloy set in between. A surge of energy as the blade comes down, and the link is severed. Alexius is the latest."

It took Anders' astonishment several moments to change into horror, and then into fury. "You just _watched_ them do that to him? Maker! You just _watched_?"

"Saving his arse wasn't what I was paid to do." Hawke said flatly. "It's terribly bad business, this sort of charity work, builds all sorts of bad habits. And besides, it was logistically impossible at that time."

"You weren't paid to... Sweet Andraste! Don't you have any thread of human _decency_?" Anders snarled. "A severance... it's... only a monster would have stood by and let it happen!"

"I'm an assassin, not a chantry boy," Hawke cut in. "I needed to see what the procedure entailed. And as I said, I couldn't have gotten him out of there without the both of us remaining alive. As far as I'm concerned, sending him here is already out of my scope of engagement. If you don't like my methods, find someone else."

Anders inhaled sharply, then took in a deep, wrenching breath, his hands clenching into fists. "A severance. It doesn't seem possible. Maker's bloody _breath_. Can it be reversed, from what you've learned?"

"No. The copies I have of d'Orsay's notes are with me. I'll be burning them after I do what I need to. If you want them..."

Anders shook his head, feeling sickened all over again. "No. No. Destroy them. When will you finish things?"

"Tonight, if you don't need the records. And no, you don't get to know my methods." Hawke tipped his hat at him - a brown felt one, this time, scuffed at the edges and well-worn. "Good day, serah."

Unsettled by the realization that he had probably antagonized the assassin - yet again - Anders said nothing as Hawke padded down the stairs, his wolf trailing him. Counting to twenty, Anders peered down the stairway, and nearly fell down - again - when Bethany said, behind his shoulder, "Normally, it takes a lot to annoy him."

Bethany was dressed boyishly, in what looked like riding gear, with a greatcoat to cover her curves, and Gabe was settled on her wide-brimmed hat, un-glamored and sleepy. She smirked at Anders' shock. "Sorry. There's no real way of fading out that isn't a shock."

"Aren't you going to follow your brother?" Anders asked weakly, then a thought occurred to him. "Did you follow him into the Gallows?"

"Do you think he'd let me?" Wordlessly, Anders shook his head. On hindsight, it seemed like something that Hawke would never risk. "There you go. And before you ask, past the second basement, apparently, no one asks many questions if you have the correct credentials. Even with a wolf daemon at your side."

"Did you want something?"

"You're upset. I understand that." Bethany inclined her head at Faith's unmoving body. "It's a horrible thing, this machine. Don't worry. It'll be finished soon."

"How does he do it?" Anders asked, daring to be curious now that Hawke was out of sight. "I thought about it. It doesn't seem possible, but my source was good."

"A friend of ours," Bethany said slowly, after a moment's thought, "Has a kaleoscope eluvian. A working one. And before you snap and snarl," she raised a palm, "It's safe."

"A _working_ one?" Pounce repeated, disbelievingly, even as Anders growled, "The Arlathan empire was _ended_ by one!"

Kaleoscope eluvians were ancient tech, understood once by the Arlathan elves, so long fragmented into the Dalish and the wretched city alienage inhabitants, with only contradicting pieces of history to explain their empire's sudden and abrupt descent three centuries ago. The eluvians appeared as mirrors, but served as gateways between the planar worlds, according to Arlathan thought: silver spyglasses that were best left broken and inert.

Three centuries ago, something had been reflected in all the kaleoscopes that had sundered the elvhen race, destroyed or sublimated their daemons. Anders shuddered to think of it, an existence without Pounce at his side, but the modern-day elves seemed to exist happily without daemons. It had also given the Chantry an excuse to declare them all ab-human, and any alienage elf could only serve as a servant at best. Anders had always felt sorry for them.

"We shut it down when we're not using it," Bethany seemed unimpressed. "Relax. We've used it before."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Bethany chewed briefly on her lower lip. "Because the last idea that we tackled in the planar wavelength was a very simple one, and only two people had known of it. It was still big, and it fought ugly. The one you're asking us to get rid of now... Garrett's completed his research. At least eight people are aware of it, and it's a complex idea. We'll need help."

"I'm sure that your brother-"

"We have other operatives, sure. But mages are strong in the planar wavelength, magic still works there. And we don't know many mages," Bethany said, self-deprecatingly. "For reasons known to you. And he won't accept help from any of your friends, if any, he won't take someone into an operation whom he doesn't trust. I know he used you to make a glamor in the theatre."

"I'll do it," Anders said, uncertainly, thinking of Mayra, Alexius, of Faith, of _Karl_ , "If you need my help, I'll give it to you."

"He's an idiot," Gabe muttered from Bethany's hat.

"I'll have to agree," Pounce moaned. "We don't even know what she's talking about!"

"When do you need me?" Anders ignored both the daemons.

"Tonight. Come down with me. Garrett's probably realized by now that I didn't follow him into the carriage and he'd have turned back." Bethany paused, her brow creasing briefly, then she added, as an afterthought, "Let me handle him."

"Gladly."

VIII.

Garrett Hawke was a dark, brooding presence in the carriage, 'Mari's head cradled in his lap, pointedly ignoring the both of them as the carriage clattered onwards and into Lowtown, towards what looked like the distant, crooked chimneys and concrete walls of the alienage slums. He hadn't, on the other hand, threatened to kill/maim/disembowel Anders/Pounce, which Anders counted as a plus in the circumstances, though he was wise enough to keep silent, Pounce out of sight in a pocket.

They were expected at the gates to the alienage - the night 'guard': really two ragged, skinny elvhen boys, with their too-glassy, almond shaped eyes, opened the cast iron gates a hungry creak for them, even as the driver turned the unmarked carriage around, clattering back where they had come.

The guards said nothing to them, and didn't even acknowledge them further. The Hawkes similarly ignored them, though Anders could have sworn that he saw Hawke slip a few silvers into the skinnier one's palm as he passed, striding purposefully towards a hovel at the corner of the circular slum, that surrounded the vhenadahl tree.

The narrow door opened a fraction at Hawke's knock, and they were let into the hovel by a bloody _Dalish Keeper_.

"Oh my," the Keeper said, blinking her large, glossy eyes at Anders in mild surprise, as she locked the door and ushered them through, "I didn't realize you were bringing a guest. An additional guest. As you are all, um, guests. Of course." A faintly panicked look crossed her too-symmetrical, tattooed features. "Um. Does anyone want some water?"

"This is Merrill. Merrill, Anders," Hawke said, clipped. "We need your help with the eluvian."

Merrill glanced at Anders' pocket, where Pounce was hiding, and then looked back up at Hawke. "He won't start panicking and clucking around when we start, will he? I find that very distracting, and unsettling."

"Merrill will be using something like blood magic to get us through the eluvian," Hawke told Anders, in the same clipped tone, though there was a gleam of something like humor in his amber eyes. "Don't start panicking and clucking around like a chicken."

"I didn't say 'chicken'," Merrill protested, even as Anders and Pounce yelped, " _What_?"

"Oh, here we go." Merrill sighed, even as Bethany covered her mouth quickly, her eyes crinkling in humor.

"Short run down. Merrill uses blood magic to get us through. No demons involved. We do what we need to do, and we come back. Any questions? No? Good." Hawke was disappearing quickly into a smaller, adjoining room.

"You didn't even let me ask!"

"Question time is over very quickly as it tends to segue distressingly into stabbing-people-with-sharp-objects time. Most tragic. Now step to it, serah Anders," Hawke called from the adjoining room. "I have a small window of time before the distraction ends, and you and my dear sister have already wasted a quarter of it."

Bethany rolled her eyes, though she followed her brother, Gabe hopping down to her shoulder. Merrill shot Anders an uncertain glance before quickly skipping along behind her. Carefully, Anders scooped Pounce out of his pocket, and arched his eyebrows at her. Pounce shifted her weight on her small taloned feet, on his palms, then her wings drooped, in defeat. They had no choice.

Shifting her onto his shoulder, Anders took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and walked into the room.

There was a small cot against the wall, upon which Bethany was already settling upon. Opposite it was a large mirror, easily taller than a man, held in place by a convoluted, twisting confection of ugly bronze and gold that looked more organic than molded, and the gray surface of the mirror offered no reflection. Hawke was settling down onto a cushion on the floor, and reluctantly, at his gesture, Anders did so as well, beside him.

"Can I get a further briefing?" he asked, watching with suspicion as Merrill drew a black-bladed knife from a curved scabbard at her belt.

"Ideas formulated by multiple people exist on a planar world," Bethany said, above him. "But they manifest and can be summoned by a touch of magic, which is a doorway opened between the Fade - the Prime planar world - and the sub-planar world on which ideas exist."

"That's a Tevinter concept," Anders said, surprised, having read about it before in Calenhad. "It's been discounted as fantasy."

"It isn't," Hawke said, impatiently. "Can we start?"

"What happens with the eluvian?" Anders asked, as meekly as he could.

"Our daemons go through it. Mage daemons wake with your consciousness in a joint balance in the Fade. 'Mari will be alone, but she will be your main muscle. Pounce should be able to use the spells that you already know."

"That's the Marcus Diversion," Anders frowned, "That daemons are a manifest extension of our souls, or our sentient minds, or, in other words, they are ideas made flesh, and in the Fade, during a mage's Harrowing, when he is of one mind with his daemon, the corrupt ideas naturally take over if he fails, creating a Prime manifest on our world, or the flesh transfiguration of the mage's corpse into a demonkin. The concept's not popular. If you've found a way to apply its theory to your work, that's _remarkable_."

"Sorry, I think you lost me at 'Marcus'," Hawke blinked owlishly at him.

"Won't it hurt you and Bethany? You've never been through the Harrowing." Mages who went through the Harrowing could separate long distances from their daemons, allowing them to function while their daemons were locked up in the Gallows, supposedly as a side effect.

"It was fine the last time. We won't be far, spatially," Hawke said, impatiently, and added, "Are you done proselytizing?" only to be swatted gently across the cheek by his own daemon. "'Mari!"

'Mari snuffled lovingly at her human's neck, then rubbed her furred cheek against his, big paws pushed briefly over his shoulders. "Love you," Anders heard her murmur, and he turned his face away, embarrassed. "I'll miss you."

Hawke held his big wolf tightly for a moment, hands curled into her ruff, then she padded reluctantly away with a low whine, to sit by the eluvian. Gabe settled on her head, and she lowered herself onto her belly briefly to allow a nervous Pounce to climb aboard. "We're ready," Hawke told Merrill tightly, and even as Anders opened his mouth, about to ask for some time to hug Pounce in turn, she nodded and sliced the black blade across her wrist, and 'Mari leaped through the suddenly whirling, silver surface of the eluvian, and Anders was falling,  
down,  
dark-

Pounce blinked his/her eyes open, snuggled in 'Mari's thick scruff, looking quickly around at their surroundings. They were on a circular, stone platform, encircled at even intervals by broken pillars in varying heights of disrepair, choked thick with a greenish gray lichen. Under 'Mari's paws, the ground was blackened and burned. Around them seemed to be a constantly shifting, sea of jade green color that whirled in an impossible fervor of sky/sea, and in the distance, they could see other platforms, floating islands with jagged teeth bellies. High above, to Pounce's left, was a dimmed outline of the Black City. They were far from the Prime, then.

"What happens now?" Pounce asked, and gripped 'Mari's scruff a little tighter. His/her voice was a curious dissonance of Pounce-and-Anders, as though they were both speaking at the same time, and even as they felt the he/she divide of their thoughts, it was a liquid one, unsettling and glorious in its meld.

Gabe settled on the blackened earth, and began to trace a rectangle with one clawed toe. Pounce peered over at the faint hum of magic, and the rectangle became a familiar access card. Laboriously, the tern flit over to another space, tracing a tiny picture of a sword, and it became a templar's heavy silver blade, stretching out over the soil. In turn, the tern somehow called a red sash, a gold crown, a pair of incongruous, blank opera tickets, a hairpin, a comb, a book on botany, and finally, a pair of pearl-handled gold scissors, in a rough circle.

"Ready?" 'Mari growled, and her voice was her own, pained. "I don't want to be here any longer than I have to be."

"What's Gabriel doing?" Pounce asked, tentatively. "Please."

"Calling up the make-shape of the people - other than us - whose minds hold the electrolytic-steam blade in their minds," 'Mari said, describing an impossibility with the lofty condescension of a veteran. "And before you ask, we learned the trick in Rivain. The witches there have full access to all the planar realms, without the need for blood magic."

"I've heard of that," Pounce said, shakily, fighting the urge to correct himself/herself to a collective 'we'. Gabe was tracing a square in the center of the circle, which coalesced into a photoscope print of the machine that Hawke had described, nestled against a whitewashed wall, two cages, and the cruel knife, hung above. Quickly, Gabe fluttered out of the circle, landing on 'Mari's head, as the wolf backed away.

They didn't have long to wait - the photoscope's surface seemed to writhe, like bubbling water, then it extended upwards and outwards in a blur, taking on metal and kineblade edges, huffing on steam and electrolytosis despite its pistons and pumps gaping empty. The circle of personal effects twisted upon the machine, and as Pounce watched, astonished, the items _melted_ together and reformed, restless, becoming first a uniform steel gray, oblong blob, then flattening and curling within itself, here a kineblade protrusion, there a red scarf, until finally, a great, two-headed wolf of metal and kineblade edges stood before them, twice 'Mari's height, shaking out pearl-handled ears and a hairpin scruff.

"Maker preserve us," Pounce whispered, absolutely astounded, but Gabe and 'Mari didn't seem fazed; Gabe had already drawn them into invisibility, the tern hunched, concentrating.

'Mari crept silently around, circling, then abruptly, she darted in, white teeth flashing, and tore out the thick green cords that laced the left hind leg of the monster wolf together, hamstringing it. The monster _roared_ , steam whistling from its joints, and spun around faster than it should have, kineblade teeth flashing, jarring briefly against a barrier that Pounce hastily threw up between them, then growling, teeth glowing a bright, electrolytic blue, and bit through the barrier, lunging forward.

Hawke's daemon had already dodged out of the way, lightning quick, and the wolves circled again, even as Gabe dropped another invisibility spell on them all. Pounce readied a haste spell, this time, as 'Mari crept closer, infusing them all when the gray wolf darted in again. It was a blur of harrying, darting attacks, with 'Mari relying on her speed and quick strikes in attempts to wear down the monster wolf, but it wouldn't work forever; Gabe was growing exhausted, and they had no real way of dealing any lasting damage. The monster wolf's skin was a horror of kineblades and hairpin spikes other than over its unprotected leg joints, bleeding 'Mari's mouth when she had tried to get purchase; Pounce had to use a quick healing spell as she cursed and spat blood on the blackened ground.

'Mari was slowing, as well, her flanks growing matted with blood from shallow, hastily healed wounds, and as Gabe dropped another invisibility spell, she circled to the edges of the platform, away from the snarling, spitting, whistling conglomerate of electrolytic steel and steam. "Now what?" she whispered. "Ideas?"

"The cables are soft. Or we could get a shield up on your mouth," Gabe whispered back. "Rock armor, Pounce."

"I don't think I can get it thin enough for 'Mari to be able to bite _and_ not get hurt," Pounce pointed out, also exhausted. "I don't have much left in me."

They took a quick inventory of their spells, then 'Mari came up with a quick plan. Circling around until they faced the monster wolf's flank, she padded silently into striking distance, even as the creature sniffed heavily at the air, shaking itself and drooling machine oil and flexor fluids that hissed and spat when the viscous droplets hit the ground. Gabe seemed to concentrate again, gesturing with a flick of sleek wings, and the invisibility spell dropped.

The monster wolf turned, snarling in a fluting crescendo of steam and shearing metal, and charged them, bounding forward. 'Mari fled quickly out of the way, even as Gabe encased the monster's front paws in a film of ice. It slipped, stumbling, then a stonefist from Pounce knocked it off its feet with a startled howl. Instantly, 'Mari closed, tearing at its neck, ignoring the pins that bit into her gums and mouth, until with a snarl she ripped off a chunk of pin-studded gray matter and jerked out a thick pink rope of cable, severing it with a snap of her jaws.

The monster wolf howled, turning and snapping even as it choked and gurgled, but but it only managed to shear a long gash down 'Mari's front left forequarter before the gray wolf limped out of range. Pounce used the last of his/her healing spells, knitting shredded flesh and fur, before sinking back down into 'Mari's thick ruff, nearly fainting from the effort, watching as the monster wolf coughed and writhed into a wet, slow end, and faded into a pile of mangled fabric and metal.

"That's it?" Pounce asked, shakily. "We're finished?"

"One of Garrett's operatives set off specific charges planted in the machine's room, earlier," 'Mari said, as she padded back towards the glimmer of space that was the eluvian's entrance. "All the access cards that could get to it have been scrambled, and the plans, as well. We're done." The wolf muttered something under her breath, shaking her sleek muzzle.

"It seems so..." _primitive_ , Pounce wanted to say, hesitating as he/she groped for another word.

Gabe peered down at him/her from where he was perched on 'Mari's head, quizzically. "Don't you know? The only thing that can kill an idea is another one."

"Job's done," 'Mari said, restless in her impatience to return to Hawke's side. "We're going home."

IX.

There were no more Tranquil mages left out in the streets, and the days stretched into weeks, returning to normal. Hawke's work had left greater repercussions than what Anders had expected; after handing over the remainder of the token fee, Anders found that he himself could little remember exactly what he had asked Hawke to do, only in the vaguest of outlines, and even the Collective at the mage underground blinked and frowned when he had reported back to them about it.

The dreams about Hawke didn't stop, even after the arbitrary end to their last encounter; upon waking, he'd found the Hawke siblings hovering over him, after which the nice one had offered him a glass of water, and the assassin one had asked him straight out for the remainder of the fee, and then he'd been sent off in a carriage while they'd argued and the Keeper had bustled around, oblivious, dusting her dining table.

Pounce had grown more confident since the battle in the planar world. Anders remembered very little of the planar world, only images and impressions, but it was good to see his daemon begin to emerge again from the scarred shell she had been since their final punishment in the Calenhad Circle, during their last failed escape attempt.

As it was, during the next time they ran into Garrett Hawke again, Pounce merely tapped him over his ear, murmuring, "Look there."

Hawke was strolling into the Madame's regimentally neat office, thumbs tucked into the belt that held his holstered revolver, again in his sleek gray three-piece suit, touching his white gloved hand to his hat when the Madame glanced up at him from her desk. He walked over, and a leather pouch of what was probably coin changed hands, disappearing into his inner shirt, and 'Mari sat down, tongue lolling, glancing up at Pounce, who nodded solemnly at her.

"Fancy seeing you here," Hawke smiled, all lazy invitation again, at Anders, and this time, he felt not a hint of fear. It made things worse. "Not one of yours? I'll be _so_ disappointed if I never knew."

The question was directed at the Madame, who smiled thinly. "Not for lack of trying, serah. I've had guests ask after him before. Serah Anders provides a different sort of service to my girls. Salves and preventatives." Her eyes hardened a little further. "Among other things. Sometimes the clients get violent enough that we need a healer."

"I may be willing to offer a discounted rate on the worst of those," Hawke said thoughtfully, then he answered the Madame's thin smile with a sharp one of his own. "Though they probably pay the best coin, don't they?"

The Madame snorted. "Spare me, assassin. I may have more work for you in a month or so. In the meantime, if you want to enjoy yourself at my establishment, please do so. Serah Anders, thank you again."

Once pointedly locked out of the Madame's office and into the carpet-lined corridor of the first floor, Hawke chuckled softly as Pounce hid in Anders' coat pockets. "You know, the best rooms are on this floor."

"I'm not aware of that." Anders had tried to sound neutral, but the tone that emerged seemed more strangled, instead. Resentful. Andraste's knickers, he was _jealous_. "I also wasn't aware that you did work for the Madame."

"I do work for anyone with good coin," Hawke pointed out, with a lopsided grin that was far more charming than it should be. "Can I offer you a ride home, serah?"

That wasn't by far the only ride that Anders wanted from Hawke, but he hastily clamped down on the rogue thoughts. "No thank you, I'll walk."

"I insist. The streets aren't safe at this time of the night." Again that bloody charming smile. "I should know."

Against his better judgment, Anders found himself being led into the unmarked carriage that waited on a side lane adjoining the Blooming Rose, and Hawke joined him after giving the driver some whispered instructions, seating himself opposite Anders, gloved hands folded over crossed, long legs, so prim and neat that Anders' hands itched. He wanted to unbutton that sharply cut suit, the inner vest, pull Hawke's pressed shirt from his tailored pants and ruck them up the lean length of his flat belly and-and Hawke was giving him a knowing look, cheek folded now in the flat of one gloved hand, passing street lamps playing his comely face in angles of shadow.

"Are you sure that you want to go home, darling?"

"Don't you have places to go, people to kill, 'darling'?" Anders shot back, his voice sounding a little brittle even to himself, looking pointedly out of the carriage window.

Hawke cocked his head, as though thinking it over, even as 'Mari snorted at his feet. "Not for the rest of today," the assassin said, and abruptly, he had his hands pressed to the carriage seat on either side of Anders, leaning close enough for Anders to smell whisky and gunsmoke and horseflesh, and he purred, in the breath between them, " _Darling_."

Anders shuddered at the mocking endearment, lips parting, and Hawke seemed to take that as an invitation, closing the distance between their mouths hungrily, licking insistently into his mouth, and Anders was whimpering as he curled his hands tightly over Hawke's neck and dragged him closer, shifting eagerly to let Hawke's knees up under his thighs, their tongues tangling wetly, possessively. The assassin had a fist in Anders' greatcoat, carefully lifting the pocket with Pounce within it out of the way, then he breathed a low chuckle with their next shared breath as the mockingbird muttered to itself, climbing out of the coat and hopping down to settle on 'Mari's scruff.

Pressed tight between Hawke's sleek body and the leather of the carriage seat, his thighs splayed open, Anders was glad for the relative dark as he flushed and rubbed himself with a groan of relief over the hard bulge he could feel under his arse, then he bit down with another whimper on his own lower lip as Hawke nipped him hard, over his shirt collar, then sucked to leave a mark.

"Would you believe me if I said that I was clean, healer?" Hawke whispered silkily into his ear, his long fingers gripping Anders' hips as he ground their frustratingly clothed bodies together, thrusting pointedly against and under Anders. "I want to fuck you."

"I... it doesn't... I have spells and... you mean, here?" Anders asked, wide-eyed; Maker, but the driver was only a layer of wood away from them, and 'Mari and Pounce were at their _feet_ , and anyone could look through the carriage windows from the street, and he wasn't even entirely sure if Bethany was around and-

"We'll have to be quick," Hawke admitted, a little reluctantly, "But I'll make it up to you when we get to my place."

"Bethany-"

"She's not here, what do you take me for?" Hawke sounded amused, nuzzling deliciously at the arch of his neck, all lazy licks and nips. "She's at Lirene's place, helping out."

Anders chewed briefly on his lower lip, then he hissed and jerked in Hawke's grasp as the assassin nipped playfully over the pulse at his neck and rolled his hips; _Maker_ 's mercy, but even if he went back to the clinic, his hand was not going to be sufficient tonight. "Pounce?"

"Maker, don't ask me about it," Pounce said, a little indistinctly, "Besides, I usually just hide under your bed. It's not like I can usually go far for pretense's sake."

"Committee seems to have voted," Hawke teased, catching the lobe of Anders' right ear between his teeth, and when Anders pulled the assassin into a longer, slower kiss, he was smirking, undoing the buttons over his breeches with nimble fingers, then grasping him with a gloved hand over his smalls and _squeezing_. At Anders harsh gasp, he asked, bloody cockily, "Been a while?"

"I happen to have things to do, usually," Anders grit out, though he couldn't help pushing his hips eagerly into Hawke's warm palm.

"No wonder you always seem like you're on tripwires," Hawke squeezed him again, palming him with Maker-bloody- _teasing_ languidness, then stroking down to drag his fingers lazily up and over his balls. "All that pent up sexual frustration. I'm surprised that nothing's blown up around you."

"You're far more attractive with your mouth shut," Anders retorted, giving up on trying to push his breeches down further and fumbling with Hawke's belt, pulling it off as Hawke thumped his fist briefly on the roof of the carriage. The vehicle swerved, changing direction, and Hawke used the momentum to switch them around, seating himself on the carriage seat with Anders straddling his lap. The angle was awkward, but Anders was past caring at this point as Hawke tugged on his smalls, with a low oath, then slit it off him with a slim knife that Anders hadn't seen him produce from anywhere. "Hey!"

Hawke grinned, unrepentant, against his neck as he pulled the fabric off onto the seat, rubbing gloved palms possessively over his arse, squeezing the firm, pert globes of flesh, then stroking his thumb over the ring of muscle between his thighs. "Mm. You don't know what I can do with my mouth."

Anders' overactive imagination would well supply it; Hawke's lush, wicked mouth, curved tight over his cock, between his legs, a flush on his cheeks and a purr rumbling through his throat - he swallowed, coughing to try and hide the jolt of _want_ that sparked through him. "Do you have something... something for slick?"

"I do." Hawke fumbled in the inner pockets of his suit jacket for a moment, then bumped a vial briefly over Anders' palm, both of which were still pressed tight over the assassin's shoulders. Hawke made as if to remove a glove but Anders clutched quickly over his wrists.

"Keep them on. I'll prepare myself."

The fleeting light from a streetlamp that they passed showed him the sudden glow of desire that flared dark in Hawke's amber eyes, then the assassin smiled and stroked the gloved hands up Anders' thighs, unbuttoning his shirt leisurely. "Very well."

He couldn't see very well, curse it all, but from the girth he could feel as he managed to get Hawke's pants and smalls pushed down enough to free Hawke's cock, fitting it into himself was going to be a challenge that he was going to relish. Hawke growled at his shaky moan as he pushed the first slicked finger into himself, kissing him roughly, bruising their lips, swallowing his second moan at the stretch from impatient digits.

"Three fingers, darling," Hawke purred, as Anders shuddered and scissored his fingers and let out an impatient whine, already wanting, _needing_ something more. "You'll need it. You're doing well, pet."

"Stop, stop talking," Anders said, panting, as he fit three fingers in a tight stretch within himself, gritting his teeth against the burn. "Or I'll..."

"Or you'll what, sweetheart, walk out on me?" Hawke asked, teasingly, rubbing a gloved thumb up Anders' cock, pressed tight against the soft fabric of his pressed shirt, swiping it over the wet tip and catching it, Maker, with the tip of his tongue, then pulling Anders back down to share his own taste, and Anders wasn't sure which of them was moaning so, wrenching and pitched, as he fumbled the last of the vial over Hawke's erection and guided it into himself.

The slick and the stretch hadn't quite been enough, and Anders clenched his fingers into claws over the leather seat with a thin, shaky cry as Hawke growled and shuddered and gripped him again over his hips, controlling the slow, gritty slide down, inch by inch until he was seated and stuffed full with Hawke's fat cock; and _Maker_ but it had been worth the wait, worth anything. "Garrett," he moaned, "Garrett, Maker, it's good-"

"I'll show you good when we get home, darling," Hawke whispered into his ear, nipping the shell of it and tugging until he moaned again, higher pitched, this time, squirming, clenching tight, then again when Hawke dug his blunt nails into Anders' thighs with a harsh gasp. "If you don't move soon, pet, I'm going to do it for you."

The awkward angle and the rattling motion of the carriage as it bounced over flagstones on its way to wherever Hawke's place was didn't allow for dramatic abandon, and they settled for rough and shallow, Anders muting his cries against Hawke's neck as Hawke rubbed the swollen head of his cock against the perfect spot within him with conscientious precision, his knees rubbing desperately against the leather of the carriage seat. Hawke was rumbling a constant stream of nonsense into his ears, alternating between nips and licks into the shells, _you're doing so well, darling_ and _come on, pet_ , until he felt like he was getting drunk on it, dazed and deaf to everything else but the wet grind of their bodies.

Hawke's gloved hand crept between them, but he pushed it blindly away. "Don't need it," he gasped, his cock pressed hard between them, already close.

Hawke laughed, strained, his gloved palms stroking up under Anders' shirt, slip-sliding over sticky sweat. "Where have you been all my life, beautiful?"

"Not... aah-" Anders' spine snapped straight with a garbled moan as Hawke pulled him down and rolled his hips, and he was coming harder than he ever had in his life, soiling Hawke's pressed shirt and his belly, keening deep in his throat when gloved hands held him down, keeping him seated until he slumped, sated. Hawke kissed him, taking his time until Anders was pushing at his shoulders, squirming in Hawke's lap from overstimulation.

"Just finish it," Anders begged. "Please."

"You want it?" Hawke whispered hotly against his cheek. "Inside you like this?"

"I want it, _please_ ," Anders was far past pride now, past dignity. "Please!"

"All right, sweetheart," Hawke drawled, his voice, however, wrung tight with the same rough need as he urged Anders to rock against him again, snapping up against him until Hawke finally held him down again, hips jerking sharply and growling until he was spent.

Anders peered wearily out of the carriage window, frowning. "We're... we're in Hightown."

Hawke was petting down his back, stroking gloved fingers down over his arse, to where they were still deeply joined, rubbing the tips of his fingers through the mess. "Yes?"

Anders shivered. "Why are we in Hightown?"

"Because my house is here?"

"But _you're_ a..."

"Assassin, yes." Hawke said dryly. "Your point being?"

"There's no justice in this world," Anders said, though he smiled as he said it.

"If there was," Hawke drawled, as he leaned in for another kiss, "I suspect that he won't be a very entertaining fellow."

epilogue.

Anders hurried down the broad stairway of the Hawke mansion when he heard Bodahn's greeting, Pounce hopping excitedly on his shoulders. Bethany sauntered into the foyer first, followed by her brother, the both of them dusty and stained from travel. She grinned when she looked up at him, saluting him playfully. "Anders. Try to actually make it to your room this time, all right?"

"How was Antiva?" Anders asked politely, stifling his impatience even as Pounce hopped down onto 'Mari's back, then chirped in affection as the wolf carefully caught her between her big paws and lapped a stripe up her back.

"In the sense that the mission was completed and we got paid, great. In that my brother whined all the way home that the zepp was going too slowly, awful," Bethany said drily, as Garrett snagged him close and kissed him in a hard press of lips and hunger. "Sweet Maker, the both of you. Upstairs first, please?"

Bodahn and Sandal had already unobtrusively disappeared, as Garrett smirked at his sister. "I don't know, I've always thought about having him on my writing desk."

Bethany made a disgusted sound, even as Gabe squawked, and they retreated quickly up the stairway as Anders laughed, his arms wound tight around Garrett's waist. "You're horrible."

"You love it," Garrett shot back, licking at the tip of his nose, chuckling when he gasped, and kissed him again, slower, soft. "Saved the world while I was gone?"

It was an old jibe, worn into affection by time, as was his answer, tucking fingers under Garrett's unshaven chin, and pulling him close again.

**Author's Note:**

> -fin. :3 Like the witches in the books, the mages all have bird daemons. It's possible for a normal person to have a bird daemon in HDM, but I re-jigged it for this game for plot device reasons. And again, if you haven't read HDM, please do so :)


End file.
